Full Circle
by Werewolf of Fire
Summary: Women are troublesome creatures; they’re only good for one thing.


**Disclaimer:** Simply put... All the characters and plot in relation to _MAR: Marchen Awakens Romance_ belong to Nobuyuki Anzai, and I make no money off this. The OCs, however, belong to me, as does whatever plot that shines through.

_Warnings:_ Slash, blood, oddness, sexual themes (nothing explicit though – please don't kill me!) OOCness, OCs. All spelling/grammatical errors are my own, if you spot any, please mention them and I will fix them.

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**Full Circle  
**

Othoma is a busy town, filled with homey cottages and many bed and breakfasts – it is the trade centre for its region. It sits at the base of a great, tree covered mountain and is framed by two calm streams, and large fields filled with produce of all colours. Peta supposes it's pleasant – there's enough green and daylight to keep Rolan happy and it's dark enough to make him feel comfortable during the day. The sun isn't strong enough to fight its way through the foliage above their simple, wooden home. Peta's come to the conclusion that the only downside is the area's frigid winters.

"But it's so pretty, Peta!" Rolan had said when the snow had turned everything a blinding white, "Don't you like how it sparkles?"

Peta doesn't. He doesn't like how pale it is, he doesn't like the horrendously cold weather it brings and most certainly dislikes the way it soaks into _everything_.

It's worse at night. Without the sun to warm his robes (even if it's just a smidgen), and thus him - Peta feels like a walking icicle. At least summer allows the air to be pleasant. He looks forward to their leaving when it finally warms up; he's already started planning.

But, for now, they need food (he hardly remembers eating as much as Rolan does when he was the boy's age). Thus he adorns his thickest winter gear and heads out into the gloom of the night, jaw clenched, hands fisted and white knuckled whilst they hide in his draping, heavy sleeves.

He buys the remaining vegetables, fruit and meat products for the day – they're all the cheap, the worst of that day's batch, but Peta doesn't care; Rolan hasn't fallen ill. And if he can save on expenses here, he's able to spend them elsewhere – like with buying a new pair of shoes for the child (how he'd managed to destroy them within a few weeks of the last pair, Peta will never know). He then strides to the bakery for two loaves of not-so-fresh bread.

The baker seems to wait for him. Peta isn't so sure it's from kindness as it is fear. No one in this village has seen his face - Rolan is the only one cursed with that – but there are stories roaming the world of MAR. Stories that are centuries old. Peta's heard them all.

He reminds all he meets of the demons in most of those tales: large eyed and mouthed, sharp teeth, yellow tinted skin and he's in possession of a little more than a small inkling for blood. He'd heard enough about it whilst a teenager (as though puberty hadn't been enough of a trial without his peers' jilted remarks). Along with that, the people are still quivering with fright over the happenings during the war – no doubt people would recognise him. Not many, but enough to cause undue chaos.

The bakery is warm – there are large ovens burning non-stop in the back, if not to cook bread then to warm their employees and customers. Peta hardly wants to leave after he hands the man a few ragged coins. But he does. His boots crunch in the snow as he settles the loaves in his now bloated bag. He leaves foot prints as deep as his ankles behind him.

The streets are quiet except for a few stray couples, returning from their evening meals. The sky is dark grey with clouds. No doubt a storm will start sometime shortly. Peta lengthens his strides; he doesn't want to be caught in it.

A dog yips to Peta's right, from the dim alleyway he always leaves the village through. It flings up snow as it bounds down the thin passage and throws itself against Peta's lean legs with a yelp. It's trembling and haggard, as though it'd been dipped into mud a few times and rolled in the dirt. Its fur clings to it in clumps - it can hardly be comfortable. The dog growls and slinks around him, before rushing off. Peta's never liked mutts.

He's left with a seemingly empty alley. But Peta knows better; this isn't the first time he's heard the chatter of teeth from deep within. From behind a large, overflowing bin, Peta spies two blue feet rubbing futilely against each other.

He scowls within the dark shadows his hood casts over his face as he nears her. He's passed her many a time before. She is something of a permanent fixture around the town. She sells matches when she can, collects firewood and completes other odd jobs. Rolan's talked to her before.

Peta's boots sink into the snow a few feet in front of the girl.

She's practically blue, as though she's been dunked into a tub of dye. She's shivering violently. He isn't at all surprised considering her threadbare clothing; they're made for summer. Her hair is long, curly and clumped, much like the dog's he'd just met.

"Are you able to work?"

It takes a moment more for her huge emerald eyes to turn up towards him. Her pupils are tiny, her eyelids stretched wide. She's skeletal, her eyes rimmed with a thick band of purple. She nods lethargically and Peta barely notices it behind her shuddering.

"Can you move?"

Again, she nods.

"Then follow me."

The girl moves slowly, clumsily. Her limbs are numb, they feel much too big, and in some places she burns. Peta can empathise.

"You will earn your board."

He turns his back to her and resumes his trek home. He won't wait if she falls or dawdles – he isn't like Phantom – she isn't his only choice.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

She'd made it to the house, coughing and spluttering, her lips a bruised blue and her cheeks a flaming red. She'd collapsed inside the door and spilt most of his hastily made soup, but she's still alive, even if she's as weak as a newborn.

"My name's Kayla." She says as he takes her bowl, a few days after her initial arrival. She still coughs as though wishing to rid herself of her lungs and her voice is hoarse, "I used to live in one of the villages a bit away from Lestava. Have you heard of Dirza?"

She coughs violently and tugs the thick blankets up, around her shoulders and snuggles into the plush pillow Peta had once claimed were his. She'd bathed, but her hair still hangs in clumps over it. Peta's sure the only way she'll be rid of them is if she cuts them off.

"What's your name?"

Peta's answer is short and sharp. He feels uncomfortable, having the girl in his home, in his room, in his bed. Other than Phantom, only Rolan has ever set foot any where near it, let alone in it. But it's necessary, should he get what he wants.

He prods at the fire crackling happily in the fireplace. His room is a jumbled mess of books and shelves. There's more paper than air in here. He'd managed to fix the worst leaks and holes; now only the worst blizzards making through the stone and wooden walls around him. Peta dusts when he can, but looking around now he realises he hasn't been doing that as often as he should be. His bed is thin, but long. It's plain, like the rest of the furniture in the room. It's very Spartan compared to Rolan's colourful mess.

"How long have you lived here? I think I've seen you before. How long are you going to let me stay here? Is Rolan your son? He seems to look up to you a lot."

"Not long. We stopped here when it started snowing. It was abandoned; I wouldn't be inconveniencing anyone." He turns to look at her, "I will let you stay for as long as you prove to be useful. And no. A good friend of mine requested I take care of Rolan. We will and have been travelling together for sometime. His current guardian wishes for him to see the world."

Has it really been four months since Phantom and the Chess' demise? Surely they hadn't travelled across a desert and marched through thirty different towns in that short expanse of time. Peta suddenly feels exhausted. He must be getting old.

Her questions don't tire so easily though.

"Where are you from?"

He doesn't bother answering that. Aside from it being none of her business, it will make her ache for more – humans are predictable that way; what is forbidden to them will only cause their sense of curiosity to rumble and swirl in their bodies like a thunderstorm. She's young. She won't be able to resist the urge to learn more about him. He looks forward to her attempts.

"Will I ever see your face?"

Peta doesn't react. Not much, anyway. He bends down, closer to the firey logs and carefully tugs his hood down lower. He smirks within it's shadows; he loves the game of cat and mouse.

"Rolan will wake shortly. Should he ask, I've gone out." Peta collects his ARM from the top drawer of his desk and plants them in his deep pockets, "You must stay in bed. If you need to go anywhere, ask Rolan to accompany you."

He doesn't want her killing herself in his home. He has other plans.

"Where are you going?"

"Out."

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

It's been a fortnight and The Girl is dressed in new clothes. Thick ones that will keep her warm and leather boots that will keep her shredded feet snug. The Girl's still obscenely skeletal. It's more obvious in the firelight when her limbs cast shadows that are too sharp and cut too deep over her skin. Her fingers are more like claws than actual fingers, but they will be adept at washing clothes and cutting up vegetables, once she regains her strength – she's much better than when he first brought her home. She's even lost her cough. Unfortunately, she can't cook very well, but Peta will change that; Peta believes she will prover herself to be a worthy investment, despite the slow start.

"Do I have to eat my carrots, Kayla?" Rolan whines.

"You shouldn't waste them; they're good for you."

"But they're horrible!"

"Eat them, Rolan." Her tone is stern and sharp, like a mother berating her child. Peta supposes it isn't a foolish comparison; The Girl is of child-bearing age (she's 17, or so she'd told him. Peta wouldn't be surprised if she were older and suffering from stunted growth) and Rolan is still young.

Peta agrees with her when Rolan turns his huge eyes on him. The boy should know better; if Peta had been forced into eating the disgusting things as a child (and because he does so now), Rolan does and will too. He pokes the little orange cubes around his plate, a pout making his bottom lip stick out – as Phantom had called it – 'adorably'.

The Girl eats what she's given with gusto. Peta supposes that it is one of very few positive outcomes of living on less than scraps for years. He keeps her carefully monitored though. He doesn't want her eating herself to death.

It's a simple dinner. Fried sprouts, potatoes, carrots and cabbage with a small piece of meat to go with them. Peta almost takes to sucking on the pork (it's black and takes like charcoal, but somewhere deep inside it there's a still juicy, bloody centre that tastes so _good_, that Peta almost groans aloud at when he finally finds it).

Then she's staring at him intently, as though he is a puzzle to be worked out. The Girl hardly blinks. It's quite an odd experience to be stared at without a touch of hatred or disgust in the starer's eyes. Were Peta younger he'd be fidgeting under her green gaze. She is the first he's encountered that has acted purely out of curiosity; he's pleasantly surprised. Her first time seeing him without his hood has gone much better than he'd imagined.

"Would you like some more, Peta?"

Peta pushes his plate away; he isn't sure how much longer he can stomach this type of food (not only is it burnt, but it's so _green _and _flowery_ now that he's made his way through the chop). No doubt he is due for a visit to the next town. They have an extraordinary amount of drunks there and seem to have taken his fortnightly visits as something of the norm (he's grateful they're all too brain dead to realise his visits coincide with the disappearances of their brethren).

He stands up, pats down his front and nods to the girl, "Thank you, but I have work to do. Be sure Rolan doesn't leave or have anything else until he finishes his vegetables." Phantom may have let him get away without choking them down, but Peta downright refuses to.

The Girl nods too enthusiastically, whilst Rolan groans and makes a dramatic show of his banging his head against the table. Peta grins at the boy's "tortured soul" remark. But The Girl aims to please; he doesn't worry that she'll do exactly what she's told.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

"Can we make a garden when it gets warmer?"

"Yeah! I've always wanted a Giant Snap-Dragon!"

"No, Rolan! I meant for vegetables!"

"Yuuuck! Why them?"

He regards the two with a level stare as they continue their debate on whether or not planting vegetables was better than planting a huge, carnivorous bud (Peta isn't too fond of either one, even if they were going to be around long enough to take care of either). He is glad the two haven't resorted to violence (much like some of the Knights had during the war), and appreciates the fact that they've forgone yelling.

Peta doesn't think they'll be around for too long after the snow melts. He has recruits to check up on, and Rolan needs to start his training. So he stays out of their little dispute.

He'd sent a letter to a few of his fellow Knights a few days before. Hopefully they would have gotten them by now. He's hoping Halloween will provide his services. Despite being unnecessarily loud, the man knows what he's doing on the battlefield.

"But, Kaylaaa!"

"_No_! We eat vegetables every day, so where going to grow vegetables!" The Girl plants her hands on her hips. Peta can see their fuller now; she's got meat on her bones. Not as much as he would like; but he's sure he can urge her to eat slightly more than she does.

She turns to him (Rolan is pouting and whining – he has yet to learn how to argue with a woman over trivial things), "I fixed your clothes." The Girl hums, "They had a few holes in them. I hope you don't mind. You did bring me here to work."

She hands him the pile of neatly folded garments, her fingers brushing his as he takes them as she smiles. It reaches her emerald eyes and makes dimples appear around the corners of her lips.

His own huge eyes go to his clothes. They're all of dark green, purple and black hues. Some have red trimming whilst others are very plain, with dim stitching to match their tone.

Phantom had always said he owns a very dull palette. Peta prefers it. There's nothing worse than fluorescent shades standing out like a glowing mushroom in the dead of night or on the battlefield. As he'd argued then, he'd might as well be wearing a sign that read, "I'm here, hit me!"

He's glad to see The Girl hasn't thought to brighten his day with bright pink stitching (as Rolan has done to his socks in the past – granted, the boy had used a putrid pale blue). She aims to please and hits her mark when she's out of the kitchen.

He inclines his head and smiles slightly, as though shy, "Thank you."

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

The pub stinks of stale smoke and alcohol. It hits him in the face the moment he steps through the door. The candles don't improve the atmosphere; everything's tinted orange-red as though a piece of thin cloth has been tied over his eyes. The women and men inside are laughing raucously. He doesn't doubt that they wouldn't be able to tell you what they are laughing about; they're too drunk for that. As usual.

Peta sits down in the back corner of the dingy establishment and orders a drink of water with a wave of his hand. Based on past experience it will be a short while before he's approached. He may as well enjoy the peace whilst he can. He needs to compose himself eitherway.

Peta allows his dirty ochre eyes to wander around the room. They linger on the women, sliding down their bared necks and smooth shoulders, skipping over the thin strips of cloth cupping the top of their arms and continuing down their forearms to their slender fingers. If he'd been his father he'd be able to see the blood pulsing under their pale skin (or so he's been told). As he is now, he can only smell it; a dirty concoction of proteins, metal and alcohol. Some of the women are riddled with the deadly toxins from tobacco.

Even with the promise of a filthy red cocktail, Peta is salivating; he hasn't eaten anything like it for nearly a month with the blizzards raging around the area. He'd almost forgone his plan and disobeyed his Phantom during them.

"Would ya be wantin' some help, sir?"

His eyes slide up her form as she stands in front of him, legs pressed tightly together as she leans over the table. Which they are. She's young, too lean and is wearing an outfit that's both too short and too tight. Her breasts look as though they are going to erupt from their cotton prison at any moment. They are pressed between her crossed arms, which are planted on the table. Her lips are covered with bright red, a few shades lighter than his favourite drink.

His hood's still up as Peta scans the pub thrice, quickly. No one is looking. She will do. He's not lucid enough to be picky.

He nods to her.

"How may I be of assistance?" It takes a mere moment for her to sit down and press herself up against his right side, "Or would yall rather continue this upstairs? I've seen ya in here before; ye not like the old duffers that usually come in 'ere. Ya shy, aren't ya? I like shy blokes."

Her breath reeks of alcohol, as does her constant rubbing – she's obviously intoxicated. And Peta hates drunks. But he nods, and stands, and pulls her up with a giggle to follow him.

He already knows this establishment inside out. There are stairs behind the bar that head up to the private rooms upstairs. As some of his previous meals have said, "That's where we make the _big_ money."

She continues to chatter as they head upstairs. Peta finds himself swinging her away from walls and banisters and other dangerous furniture before they're in front of her room. She opens it with another loud giggle and tugs him inside.

Immediately her arms are wrapped around his waist and her lips are on and all over his clothed shoulder.

"What're ya doin' wearing so many layers, sir? You'd think it was cold outside." Her smile doesn't reach her eyes, "But it's not cold in 'ere so why don't ya just let me take off a few things."

He grabs her wrists as she goes to untie the bow keeping her clothes fit snugly around her torso, trapping them behind her as he pulls her against him. She sighs, titters and hums, swaying against him and snuggling against his lithe chest.

A second later they're standing in the snow. He's had enough.

There is something deep inside Peta that appreciates doing this the old fashion way, with teeth and tongue. He paralyses her first, with a quick nip to the back of her throat as he slides his clawed hand up her shoulder and neck and lift her hair as though it were a veil. Blood oozes from the wound, testing his control; but she won't feel a thing. Even if she is looking up at him with wide, wide, sky blue eyes.

He pulls off his hood – it's too awkward to do this with it on – and her eyes widen even further, until her pupils are hardly anything but pin pricks. He loves seeing this reaction in his meals; the obvious realisation that monsters could exist. 'His kind' live in fables all across MAR.

"S-sir, please, p-please! I-I haven't done – _please_!" She's sobbing, tears are falling down her cheeks and catching in her ears and curly hair.

Peta grins, "You're being _very _helpful."

He feels tingly all over as he lays her on the ground. She sinks into the snow as does he as he kneels beside her. He listens to her musical whimpers and lifts her hand to his thin lips.

Peta isn't like the monsters in stories. He doesn't drink from the throat; even if her cries will slide straight into his ears, it's much too awkward. He can't fit his mouth around anyone's throat comfortably. But human wrists are small and delicate – especially women's. They're pumping with blood, just like their long, pale necks, but they're both easier to lift and easier to drink from.

Skin is as fragile as wet paper when it's against his sharp teeth. He almost groans at the first taste of her blood. It's metallic, strong, and pumped full of alcohol, but Peta doesn't mind so much now that he's got it in his mouth. He feels rejuvenated with every single warm drop.

Her blood dribbles down his chin, stains his clothes and hers. It moves like water over smooth stone. It's hot for now and the way it sets his every cell aflame is invigorating. But very soon her skin will be as frigid as ice and her blood will run just as cold. It is the only negative thing about a fresh meal; there isn't anyway to prevent wastage.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Peta sometimes mourns the fact that he hadn't let Phantom lecture him about children (he mourns the fact that Phantom isn't around to keep him company at all, but he knows better than to dwell on that). The man had seemed to have a connection with them; he seemed to understand what children wanted and when they needed it. It also helped that he wasn't at all odd looking, could act kindly and was somewhat childish himself.

Most of all he mourns the fact that Phantom knew how to deal with affection and Peta – despite not caring about receiving or giving it – doesn't know how to react well when one grows uncomfortably comfortable with what they're feeling towards him.

Peta hadn't been the most attractive of children – and he isn't one of the most attractive of adults – the only girl to have any interest in him at all had been the one that had moved next door when he'd been 13. And even then, it was more for his mind than for his looks, that she'd even considered him at all.

But The Girl isn't an academic. She can barely read, let alone contemplate the wonders of the world and trade cultural ideas with him. Neither is she cruel nor using him to get back at a former lover. But she _has_ grown overly fond of him - Peta can tell from the way she looks at him, at the way she touches him – and despite it all being apart of his plan, he isn't sure how to answer.

The first few times it had happened, Peta hadn't made too much of it (as his plan said). He'd thought it had been her way of proving he was real. He'd done much the same to Phantom when the man had found him in his rickety old hut, with his moulding books and robes. Though Peta had been sure to make sure the man had been asleep whilst he'd checked. But it's been a month and she's still grazing her finger tips over his slender fingers and she still cups his shoulder whenever she can. Peta swears his clothes smell more and more like her every time she washes them.

He supposes he should follow her lead; Phantom's wooing ability seemed to lay in the fact that his very being hypnotised those around him. As though he were a snake capturing everyone with his brilliant eyes and pulling them in until he'd all but strangled him. The Girl seems to think being overly touchy will work and who is he to argue? If he'd been a normal, human man with 'normal' tastes he may be somewhat more appreciative. Either way, The Girl seems to know what she's doing – and if it's making him uncomfortable, she has to be doing _something_ right.

"Peta," He turns to find her standing in his doorway with her warm cape draped over her thin shoulders. She grins, "Rolan and I are going to get some ingredients for dinner. What kind of soup would you prefer? Would you like me to get you anything?"

Peta stands and tucks his chair in. And places the book that he'd had perched on his curled knee on top of the pile on his desk. He makes a show of his checking his ink and paper supplies, before murmuring, "Hmmm, no, I think not. As for the soup," His long, slender legs make short work of the distance between them. His hand cups her shoulder, "I'm sure you'll do well with whatever you decide."

He squeezes it and allows himself to show off a small smile. Her face has turned a pretty red, her mouth slightly agape as she shyly looks up at him. Peta pushes his long, yellow-grey hair over his shoulders as he straightens.

"Be sure to be home before dark."

Then he turns back to his desk. He busies himself with plotting and calculating until he's called out for dinner later that night (it's good he'd taught The Girl early that he doesn't like hourly interruptions).

She seems obscenely happy whilst serving dinner. Peta supposes he'd chosen the right course of action; especially when she flushes as he straightens her hair (once they were out of Rolan's line of sight).

Unfortunately, it only makes her actions triple in number.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

There is something about the sound of a quill scratching across the yellow stained surface of his paper that makes something deep inside him well and bubble happily. Peta has never felt as at peace as he does when he's either reading or writing. He knows it is something he can control aptly and he's always found comfort in other people's problems.

He's already written two letters, and is onto his third. Chimera and Galian are two of his newest recruits, whilst Halloween has been a comrade of his for seemingly ages. Peta feels much more comfortable talking to them through ink and parchment rather than face to face.

The first letter, to Chimera, inquires of her training's progress. Peta doesn't expect her to be coping well to the changes that would be morphing her into the monster Ghost ARM users always become. He hopes his news and his promised visit will strengthen her resolve.

Galian's letter is next. The man has the drive of a raging bull; Peta isn't worried about him in that capacity. Much like he knows he hadn't anything to fear about the man's training. Rather, Galian is weak to his past relationships. Peta can't be blamed for reminding him to be cautious whenever he spies on the Lubarian thieves.

The letter he's currently writing is Halloween's. Though they'd had their share of debates and disagreements, Peta knows the man is the most suitable to start training Rolan properly. Halloween will know how to make Rolan stronger without totally killing the boy.

Peta frowns down at the parchment. His quill is balanced precariously the edge of the ink well. Despite his dislike for her, Candice would be suitable in teaching Rolan know how on the battlefield whilst Peta could not. No doubt she'd do anything if he tacked, "Phantom would appreciate it" on the end of all his requests.

He huffs.

Sometimes he wonders what Phantom was supposed to see in her and as quick as a snake's bite, he pulls himself away from those thoughts. Nothing annoys him more than Candice and her feminine whims. Especially when they have something to do with Phantom (which means all of them).

Peta smirks.

"Love is not blind, rather, Candice is."

Phantom had said once, with that little, self-satisfied smile of his. They'd been talking about the woman's latest bout of showing off – this time it was a new set of leggings that just so happened to show just how 'lovely' her legs were.

Peta can't help but let his smirk widen. It was obvious Phantom had eyes only for her Majesty, the Queen. His darling Diana. To put it poetically, she'd been Phantom's 'guardian angel' and the one that had inspired him into taking on apprentices (even if Rolan is the only one worth the trouble to date).

"What are you smiling about?"

Peta's large eyes race to The Girl. She's carrying a tray of goods. No doubt she has had Rolan help her through the recipe books he'd managed to find amongst his collection. The boy is standing behind her, holding the door open as she wanders into the cluttered room. He ought to ask Weasel to make him more shelves; but Peta isn't sure he'd use them.

"It's nothing." Peta replies as he sets his writing utensils aside.

"Who are you writing to?"

He regards the short letter, "An acquaintance."

The girl smiles – it looks strained, "Oh, well, um," She extends the small tray towards him. Her arms now have meat on them, "I made some cakes. Look-see, they're not too burnt."

Peta nods and takes one – he's knows better than to insult any female – especially when it comes to cooking. But the cakes are _green_ and Peta wonders if he'll ever escape the fetid colour. He's actually relieved to see the cake's dirt black bottom.

"Thank you." He's quite honestly struggling not to glare at the offending sweet, "I'll have a glass of milk too, please."

The Girl smiles hugely, and her eyes twinkle as she nods, "Yes, of course! I'll be right back!"

Rolan hastily dodges her. It's as her hurried steps peter into silence that the boy carefully and slowly slinks into the room. He sits himself on Peta's bed and swings his short legs. His hair's getting longer; it's hanging about his elbows. Peta will need to cut it very soon. He doesn't wish to see a rematch between Rolan and his brush.

A moment later, Rolan stares up at him. Peta's somewhat surprised to see him frowning slightly.

"Are you alright, Peta?" The boy asks sternly.

Peta slides his red bookmark into place and carefully places the book on his desk. It's old and leather bound and smells funny, but Peta thinks that of many things.

"I was thinking of Phantom."

He answers quietly, honestly; just as he'd promised to do when Rolan had first come out of his bout of depression after the war. Peta had discovered that it helped both of them when they talked about him, despite the fact that they cared about him in very different capacities. Rolan has been more co-operative since its creation too.

Rolan's ginger eyes fall to the stony ground, "I miss him."

Peta nods, "I do, also."

"He wouldn't like those cakes." Rolan mumbles.

Peta smirks and eyes his own, "He ate his vegetables, Rolan."

His reply is immediate: "Not in cakes!"

"I suppose not." Peta's relinquishes as they fall silent. Steps are beginning to echo in from the hallway again and The Girl arrives baring a small glass of pure white milk a moment later.

"Thank you." He says as he takes it (he's gotten good at _accidentally _brushing his fingers against hers), "Have you cleaned up?"

"Mostly – I only have that tray, plate and your glass, really." She smiles and wrings her messy, stained apron in her hands. Her arms are much thicker now; healthily so. He idly appreciates them as he swallows his first bite. His ochre eyes can't resist the little blue stripes on her wrists.

"Then Rolan will help you with your reading."

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

The roof in the kitchen begins to leak again as the snow melt. Peta isn't surprised. He's sure there's a 'sparkly wasteland' on top of his flat roof, piled up and going no where. He wrinkles his nose in disgust; he hates snow. He's not stepping outside again until it's all gone.

"Another strip." He orders as he sticks out his hand.

The Girl hands him one; it's sticky with mud and glue; his mother's special recipe created just for this purpose (how she'd come up with it, Peta still doesn't know, but he will. He's stubborn). Both of their hands are stained a dirty grey. It smells putrid.

"How long will that hold?" She asks.

Peta's carefully flattens the strip over the last three he'd planted with his fingers and scrapes away the excess sealer, "A few months." He drops from the bench and wipes his hands on the towel The Girl holds out for him, "It's alright; we won't be staying here for much longer."

His hair is tied back, showing off his 'normal' ears and his slanted eyes – it feels odd not having one of them covered. He's dressed in long, inky black pants and two long-sleeved shirts, one dark green, the other dark purple. The girl's wearing just about the same thing, minus her hair being tied up and one shirt. Their pants are tucked into their thick boots.

"Where are we going?" The girl asks.

Peta scrubs at his fingers, "Somewhere hot." A desert, if he has his way.

"But it gets warm here and we were going to plant a garden. Why can't we stay?"

Peta regards her with a level stare, before returning to his scrubbing (he doesn't want to have to resort to cold water; it's chilly enough as it is without numbing his hands), "I have a job to finish and people to check on."

"Can't you drop in and come back?" The girl's puttering about the kitchen, picking up the bowls and spoons he'd used to make the disgusting concoction.

He glances up at her. His mouth is contorted into a small scowl, "No. Rolan needs to start his schooling and the teacher I've chosen is half a continent away."

"Oh."

The kitchen falls quiet, as Peta gives up on his hands (it'll come off eventually) and instead starts cleaning the benches and table top. It's a thick, heavy set oak, dulled by age and disuse. It's moulding around the legs too.

Halloween had agreed to take Rolan on board, as did Weasel, Candice and Galian. He has assigned them all a single subject: Halloween's will be ARM, Weasel's will be patience, Candice's will be strategy (and will be backed up by his own lessons), whilst Galian will teach the boy hand to hand and armed combat. Peta will continue to teach the boy in the house; through books and about the world of MAR. Rolan seems excited to learn about his home town's history.

Peta's knocked from his thoughts by small, feminine hands. They cup his own, much larger ones.

"I," The Girl's eyes fall from his face to stare at the bench. A second later she's staring up at him again, "You're going to take me with you, right?"

Peta smiles, "Of course."

She beams up at him, a smile that glows and makes her emerald eyes sparkle. Her hair hangs messily about her face, "Thank you!"

"You're welcome."

After another quick squeeze, she's practically bouncing out of the room. Most likely she's gone to find Rolan.

Peta's smile doesn't wane. He can smell her in the air around the house. She's been here long enough to have stained it with her scent. She's nearly ready for the picking; a few weeks. He'll bottle her just before Rolan and he leave.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Rolan bounds over a fallen tree. His feet clear the mushroom infested bark by a good foot. He's proud. When they'd first found the little house – as ragged and rickety as it has always been – he'd hardly managed to jump on top of them. He runs ahead, hopping over stones and roots, before he sets his ginger eyes on Peta's lanky form. One of their group isn't with them and Rolan's worried.

"Peta, where did Kayla go?"

He's asked several times, but Peta hasn't answered him yet. But Rolan still wonders, because Kayla had sounded like she'd really wanted to come and she isn't here now. Not that he blames her. He and Peta have seen some of the biggest, most beautiful places in MAR whilst travelling. And Peta protects him when he can't do it himself (though he's getting better. He even manages to hit the target now). Rolan wishes she could have come.

Peta spares him a glance as they wander through the forest. It's bursting with life, all green, brown and sparkling white dew. It's too early for anyone to be up, but Peta prefers the hours just before the sun inhabits the sky. Rolan would much prefer travelling by day. You meet more animals and there's less chance of him tripping over then. Sometimes he wonders if Peta does this on purpose, just to see him hurt himself (until he remembers the man's scowl – Peta's scary when he's unhappy and he's always unhappy when he hurts himself).

"I thought she wanted to come." He says as he adjusts the pack he's carrying (it's filled with clothes and little snacks).

"She had."

They're some of the few words Rolan's heard from Peta since they'd left late the afternoon before.

"Sooo why isn't she here with us?" He jumps on top of a large boulder.

"She's gone home. Her parents sent a message for her." Peta replies. He's carrying his own pack; it's bigger than Rolan's and has clanging bottles, clothes and a book or two in it. Peta's wearing his ARM.

"Oh."

He's confused. Hadn't Kayla said her parents were with his own? He hadn't thought they'd come back; like his own haven't.

Rolan fixes the ground with a melancholy stare, "The least she could have done was say goodbye." He mutters with a pout.

"Some people don't like goodbyes. Sometimes they're too painful."

Rolan nods. He understands that. He would have hated to say goodbye to Phantom; he would have held on and not let go, no matter what.

The boy lets Peta catch up before he starts to jog beside him. Usually he'd be taking care to count how many of his steps equal one of Peta's (one and a half, the last time he'd checked), but his mind wanders. Rolan keeps his ginger eyes trained on the wet, forest floor.

He's careful not to step on the budding mushroom sprouting up from the moist earth like a child's arms as they slip out of their warm blankets and stretch in the cool morning air. They're all different colours; yellow, polka dotted (he likes those best), green and glowing ones.

"Rolan," The boy blinks up at the strange looking man, "When someone leaves you, you still carry them with you."

The boy's eyes widen with surprise, "Oh! I remember my mum saying something like that!" He turned, daring himself to walk backwards as he patted his chest, just over his heart, "You keep them here and always remember them, that way they'll remain with you."

Peta nods, his eyes rising to the canopy of new leaves growing above them.

Rolan stumbles, yelps, and recovers with a bit of flailing. He's smiling and giggling when he continues, "But Kayla's not dead."

Peta doesn't reply.

* * *

**Woffy: **Let it be known that PETA I LOVE YOU BUT YOU'RE A SADISTIC BASTARD. (You'd fit in so well with my family~)

This is for the MAR Incentive - I apologise hugely for my being late. But look, 'tis _done! _I only changed the entire plot like three times. D:

Believe it or not, there's symbolism in this fic. And several fables and fairy-tale inserts (I hope you caught them). Is what he'd done too subtle? I can't tell. Either way, critique is awesome (especially on the end – which I'm not too happy with but will have to do before I come up with something better).

Ciao! Hope you enjoyed! Once again, sorry this is late.


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